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CHAPTER XXVIL
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“Ah, I have found thee."
An hour later, at the rising of the
moon, they started for the bear hunt.
Reinaldo was not of the party.
'they rode over the mountain, through
the forest and down into a little farm in
the valley. The Indians were waiting
and killed a bullock at once, placing the
carca. s in a conspicuous place. Then all
retired to th shade of the trees. In less
than a half I our a bear camo prowling
out of the forest and began upon the
meal so considerately provided for him.
When bis attention was fully engaged
Rotscheff a.id the officers, mounted,
dashed down upon him swinging their
lassos. The bear showed fight and stood
his ground, but this was an occasion
■when tho bear always got tho worst < f
it. Ono lasso caught his neck, another
his hind fo< t, and he was speedily
strained and strangled to death. No
sooner was ho dispatched than another
appeared, then another, and tho sport
grew very exciting, absorbing the atten
tion of tho women as well as the ener
gies of tho men.
Estenega lilted Chonita from her horse.
“Let us walk,” he said. “They will not
missus. A few yards farther and you
will bo on my territory. I want you
there."
She made no protest and they entered
the forest. The moon shone down through
tho lofty redwoods that seemed to scrape
its crystal; the monotone of tho distant
sea blended with tho faint roar of the
tree tops. The vast gloomy aisles were
unbroken by other sound.
Ho took her hand and held it a mo
ment, then drew it through his arm.
“Now tell mo all,” he said. “They will
be occupied a long while. Tho night is
ours.”
“I have como hero to tell you that 1
loro you,” she said. “Ah, can I make
you tremble? It was impossible for mo
not to tell you this. 1 could not rest in
my retreat without having tho last word
with you, without having you know me.
And 1 want to tell you that 1 have suf
fered horribly. You may care to know
that, for no one else in tho world could
have made mo; no one else ever can.
Only your fingers could twist in my
heartstrings and tear my heart out of
my body. 1 suffered first because 1
doubted you, then because I loved you,
then the torture of jealousy and the
pangs of parting, then those dreadful
three months when I heard no word.
“I could not stay at Casa Grande; ev
erything associated with you drove me
wild. Oh. 1 have gone through all varie
ties! But the last was tho worst after 1
heard from you again, and till other
causes were removed, and 1 knew that
you were well and still loved me; the
knowledge that 1 could never bo any
thing to you—-and 1 could bo so much!
Tho torment of this knowledge was eo
bitter that there was but one refuge—
imagination. I shut my eyes to my littie
world and lived with you. and it seemed
to mo that I grew into absolute knowledge
of you. Let me tell you what 1 divined.
You may tell me that 1 am wrong, but I
do not believe that you will. I think
that in the little time we were together I
absorbed you.
“It seemed to me that your soul reached
always for something just above the at
tainable—restless in tho moments which
would satisfy another; fretted with a
perverse desire for something different
when an ardent wish was granted; steeped
under all wanton determined enjoyment
of life, with the bitter knowing of life's
sure impotence to satisfy. Could the dis
satisfied darling mind loiter long enough
to give a woman more than the promise
of happiness? But never mind that.
“With this knowledge of you my own
restive demand for variety left me; my
nature concentrated into one desire—to
be all things to you. What 1 had felt
vaguely before and stifled—the nothing
ness of life, the inevitableness of satiety—
I repudiated utterly now that they were
personified in you. I would not recog
nize the fact of their existence. I could
make you happy. How could imagina
tion shape such scenes, such perfection
of union, of companionship, if reality
were not? Imagination is the child of
inherited and living impressions. I might
exaggerate, but even stripped of its halo
the substance must be sweeter and more
fulfilling than anything else on this earth
at least. And I knew that you loved me.
Oh, I had felt that! And the various
ness of your nature ahd desires, al
though they might madden me at times,
would give an extraordinary zest to
life.
“I was The Doomswoman no longer.
I was a supplementary being who could
meet you in every mood and complete it,
who would so understand that I could
tie man and woman and friend to you.
A delusion? But so long as I shall never
know let me believe. An extraordinary
tumultuous desire that rose in me like a
wave and shook me often at first had in
those last sad weeks less part in my
musings. It seemed to me that that was
the expression, the poignant essence of
love, but there was so much else! Ido
not understand that, however, and never
shall. But I wanted to tell you all. I
could not rest until you knew me as I
am and as you had made me. And 1
will tell you this, too," she cried, break
ing suddenly. “I wanted you so! Oh,
1 needed you so! It was not 1 only who
could give. And it is so terrible for a
woman to stand alone!"
He made no reply for a moment. But
he forgot every other interest and scheme
and idea stored in his impatient brain.
He was thrilled to his soul and filled
with the exultant sense that he was
about to take to his heart the woman
compounded for him out of his own
elements.
“Speak to me,” she said.
“My love, I have so much to say to
you that it will take all the years we
shall spend together to say it in.”
“No, no! Do not speak of that. There
lam firm. Although the misery of tho
past months were to be multiplied ten
hundred times in the future, I would not
marry you.”
“It seems absurd to argue the matter,
but tell me the reasons again, if you
choose, and we will dispose of them
once for all. Do not think for a mo
ment. my darling, that I do not respect
your reasons, but 1 respect them only
because they are yours; in themselves
they are not worthy of consideration.”
“Aye, but they are. It has been an
unwritten law for four generations that
an Estenega and an Iturbi y Moncada
should not marry. Tho enmity began, as
you should know, when a member of
each family was an officer in a detach
ment of troops sent to protect the mis
sions in their building. And my father,
he told me lately, loved your father's
sister for many years—that was the rea
son he married so late in life—and would
not ask her because of her blood and of
cruel wrongs her father had done his.
Shall his daughter be weak where he
was strong? You cast aside traditions
as if they were the seeds of an apple, but
remember that they are blood of my
blood. And the vow 1 made—do you
forget that? And tho words of it? The
church stands between us. I will tell
you all; the priest has forbidden me to
marry you; he forbade it every time I
confessed, not only because of my vow,
but because you had aroused in me a
love so terrible that I almost took the
life of another woman. Could I bring
you back to the church it might be dif
ferent, but you rule others; no one could
remold you. You see it is hopeless. It
is no use to argue.”
“I have uo intention of arguing.
Words are too good to waste on such an
absurd proposition that, because our
fathers hated, we, who are independent
and intelligent beings, should not marry
when every drop of heart's blood de
mands its rights. As for your vow—
what is a vow? Hysterical egotism, noth
ing more. Were it the promise of man
to man the subject would be worth dis
cussing. But we will settle the matter
in our own way.” He took her suddenly
in his arms and kissed her. She put her
arms about him and clung to him, trem
bling, her lips pressed to his. In that
Supreme moment he felt not happiness,
but a bitter desire to bear her out of the
world into some higher sphere where the
condition of happiness might possibly
exist. “On the highest pinnacle we
reach,” he thought—not then, but after—
“wo are granted the tormenting and
chastening glimpse of what might be,
had God, when he compounded his vic
tims, been in a generous mood and com
pleted them.”
"You will resist no longer?” he said in
a few’ moments.
‘ ‘Aye, more surely than ever now.” Her
voice was faint, but crossed by a note of
terror. “In that moment I forgot my
religion and my duty. And what is so
sweet —it cannot be right.”
“Do yon so despise your womanhood,
the most perfect thing about you?”
“Oh, let us return! I wanted to kiss
you once. I meant to do that. But I
should not — Let us go! Oh, I love you
so! I love you so!”
He drew’ her closer and kissed her un
til her head fell forward and her body
grew’ heavy. “I shall think now’ for
both,” ho said unsteadily, although there
was no lack of decision in his voice.
“You aro mine. I claim you, and I shall
run no further risk of losing you”
Neither saw a man w’alking up the
trail. Suddenly the man gave a bound
and ran toward them. He was Reinaldo.
“Ah, I have found thee,” he cried.
“Listen, Don Diego Estenega, lord of
the north, American, and would be dic
tator of the Californias. Two hours ago
I dispatched a vaquero with a circular
letter to the priests of the department of
the Californias warning them each and
all to write at once to the archbishop of
Mexico protesting that the success of
your ambitions would mean the down
fall of the Catholic church in California
and telling them your schemes. Thou
art mighty, O Don Diego Estenega, but
thou art powerless against the enmity of
the church. They are mightier than
thou, and thou wilt never rule in Cali
fornia. Unhand my sister! Thou shalt
not have her either. Thou shalt have
nothing. Wilt- thou unhand her?” he
cried, enraged at Estenega’s cold recep
tion of his damnatorv oaws. "Thou
shouldst not have her if I tore thy heart
from thy body.”
Estenega looked contemptuously across
Chonita’s shoulder, although his heart
was lead within him. “The last resource
of the mean and downtrodden is re
venge." he eaid. “Go. Tomorrow 1
ehall horsewhip you in the courtyard of
Fort Ross.”
Reinaldo, hot with excitement and
thirst for further vengeance, uttered a
shriek of rage and sprang upon him.
Estenega saw the gleam of a knife and
fiung Chonita aside, catching the driving
arm. the fury of his heart, in his mus
cles. Reinaldo had the soft muscles of
the caballero and panted and writhed
in the iron grasp of the man who forgot
that he grappled with the brother of a
woman passionately loved, remembered
only that he rejoiced to fight to the death
the man who had ruined his life. Rei
naldo tried to thrust the knife into his
back. Estenega suddenly threw his
weight on the arm that held it, nearly
wrenching it from its socket, snatched
the knife and drove it to the heart of his
enemy.
Then the hot blood in my body turned
cold. He stood like a stone regarding
Chonita, whose eyes, fixed upon him,
were expanded with horror. Between
them lay the dead body of her brother.
He turned with a groan and sat down
on a fallen log, supporting his chin with
his hand. His profile looked grim and
worn and old. He stared unscvinglv at
the ground. Chonita stood still looting
at him. The last act of her brother’s life
had been to lay the foundation of her
lover’s ruin; his death had completed it.
All the south would rise did the slayer
of an Iturbi y Moncada seek to rule
them. She felt vaguely sorry for Rei
naldo; but death was peace; this was hell
in living veins.
The memory of the world beyond the
forest grew indistinct. She recalled her
first dream and turned in loathing from
the bloodless selfishness of which it was
the allegory. Superstition and tradition
slipped into some inner pocket of her
memory, there to rattle their dry bones
together and fall to dust. She saw only
the figure, relaxed for the first time, the
profile of a man with his head on the
block. She stepped across the body of
her brother, and kneeling beside Estene
ga drew his head to her breast.
THE END.
- * ~i_ 'lU—w -4 **
Kot.*
Question. I notice cotton stalks
wilting and dying in my field without
any apparent cause. On examination
I find the roots rotten, and some with a
white mould on them. What causes
this, and is there any remedy?
Answer.—The disease is the “root
rot,” and is caused by a fungus. This
disease has been carefully investigated
by the Texas Experiment Station, it be
ing very prevalent in the central black
prairie lauds of that state. Their re
port demonstrates that all soils are
more or less subject to it, though it is
of most common occurrence in lands
that are relentive of moisture and do
not drain off as they should. The com
monly entertained opinion that only
certain soils develop this disease has
been entirely refuted, and it can and
does occur on almost every variety of
soil. The fungus has been found on
plants only a few inches in height, but
genera .y does not spread until the mid
dle of June, or even later, when the
plants are blooming and fruiting. It is
thought by many planters that dry
weather checks this disease, and close
observation partially confirms this. The
fungus is nourished by the living sub
stances of the roots, which after a time
die, aud the plants thus deprived of
their means of support, wilt and die
also. Experiments at the Texas Station
have demonstrated that this disease can
not be remedied or checked by the appli
cation of any known substance to the soil.
The only thing to do is to resort to a ro
tation of crops, planting the land that
is infected with the fungus, in such
crops as corn, wheat, millet or other
members of the grass family, and put
ting it in cotton not oftener than onoe
in three or four years. Some weeds,
such as the rag weed and cocklebur, are
subject to the attack of this fungui, but
apparently only after they have been
injured mechanically. Alfalfa or lu
cerne is also subject to injury from this
fungus. Among trees the ohina berry
aud paper mulberry are most subject to
this disease, though apple trees, elm,
silver mapla and others are sometimes
attacked. —State Agricultural Depart
ment. 3
Flies on Cattle.
Question. —Can you give me a relia
ble recipe for protecting my oows against
flies? They are on my cattle in such
numbers as to amount to a plague, and
among the milk cows to suoh a degree
as to materially decrease the flow of
milk.
Answer. —Take of coal tar two parts,
coal oil one part, and any kind of grease,
one part, mix them with a small amount
of carbolic acid One thorough applica
tion of this, using a cloth to moietea
the hair, horns, feet and legs of (be
animal, will last, if the weather be dry,
for ten days or more, aad will entirely
protect the animal from fliea If the
mixture becomes too thick use a littto
more coal oil; if too ttein to adhere Weik
use a little more coal tar. Oarboiio aekd
may bo bough* la oryetala £a» 0 «r 0
Question. —Is there any great risk in
feeding damaged pea vine hay? I have
known oases where it has been fed
without any apparent injury.
Answer. —As a rule it is dangerous
to use stock food of any kind which is
set perfectly sound, particularly in the
case of horses and mules. In the case
of pea vine hay, it has been demon
strated that where it has fermented or
become moist after being stored, salt
petre is formed in sufficient quantities
to produce violent irritation of the kid
neys, and if the feeding is persisted in,
death often results. Mouldy hay is also
regarded by experienced feeders as ex
tremely dangerous.—State Agricultural
Department
THE HEASCN WHY,
"What makeo yov. boy that breed es soapF
I asked a wemsn shrewd,
“Some others have far larger scope.”
Their names I hero reviewed.
“What makes you buy that certain brand?'
The woman looked surprised.
And thus eho answered my demand,
“Because It’s advertised!"
“Why did yc»i cboos • that ribbon fair?”
I asked a little m!ss.
“The storekeeper had others there.
Why did you ask for this?"
She gazed at me with pitying eyes,
My face she criticised,
Then answered very simply, “Why,
“Because it’s advertised!”
“What makes you always buy that wine?"
I asked a business friend.
“It’s quite a favorite of mine.
But—why select this brand?"
He Rokod astonished, and my alm
He had not recognized,
But still be answered just the same,
“Because it’s advertised!"
And so you’ll find where’er you go.
Wherever people buy,
| Tho goods that have the greatest show
And on which folks rely
Are those made known through printers’ ink,
And it may be surmised
One merit is, the people think,
“Because it’s advertised!''
—Printers’ Ink.
MARIQUITTA.
Yes, it was tho house at the cor
ner, and I passed it every day. Its
inmates became familiar to me, and
I became known to them. Father,
mother, daughter and son, there
they sat on the flat roof in the fresh
evenings of tho Indian cold weather;
there, too, they lounged on sultry
summer nights to catch a breath of
air.
I did not know’ their name, but I
knew that they were Eurasians (Eu
ropean and Indian blood). I did not
even know to what social grade they
belonged, but I knew that I was not
likely ever to meet them in any so
ciety I might frequent.
I was not anxious to meet them or
to develop any personal acquaintance
with them. But they had become
familiar objects to my view, and it
seemed to be part of my everyday
life to see them sitting there on the
roof.
One day I noticed a disturbance at
the corner house. A vehicle of tor
ture, otherwise known as an Indian
cab—that is prone to rattle its un
fortunate inmate to atoms long be
fore its destination be reached—
stood at the door. Two boxes and a
bag seemed to compose the luggage
of the new arrival; no ’board ship
chair, nothing to suggest a sea voy
age. No, I clearly decided it was not
the mail that had brought this addi
tion to tho inhabitants of the corner
house. The person, whoever it was,
had entered before I passed, and
only the luggage was waiting pa
tiently outside. I had the curiosity
to glance at the labels and saw that
they were marked “M. G.”
My friends did not appear quite so
often on the roof now, and they
were never accompanied by the
stranger.
It was the gay time of the year,
and the festivities were numerous.
I had a young friend staying with
me at the time, and for his sake I
determined to break through my
lonely habits that I might show him
some of the gayety of our town.
There was a ‘‘mad ball,” as the na
tives term our fancy drees dances,
at the town hall, and, for the sake
of my friend, I took tickets, and we
went. The evening, for the time of
year, was unusually warm, and all
windows and doors were thrown
widely open. The room looked
charming in its decorations, and, as
my young companion seemed to en
joy himself, I felt satisfied. Saun
tering out on to one of the verandas,
I sat down peacefully to enjoy tho
strains of subdued music that reach*
ed me in the balmy air. The veranda
was so dark that I could not see the
faces of two people who were sitting
in the opposite corner. But I could
not help overhearing a few words
of their conversation.
“How do you like being here?”
I was almost startled to recognize
the voice of my young friend.
“Oh, I like it very much. It is a
great change,” answered a girl's
voice.
As they passed me I could see
that her fancy dress was a copy of
a Grecian robe, and that it was en
tirely white, and I heard my friend
say, “I have not seen you for
months.”
I returned to the ballroom and
watched the dancers. Then I be
came aware that my friend was ap
proaching me, and that his Grecian
partner was still with him. This
time I saw her face. It was very
beautiful —her complexion pale, but
not sallow. Her face suited her fan
cy dress, for it was purely classical.
Her eyes were large and dark; her
hair was of deep brown and loose
ly coiled at the back of her head in
a Grecian knot. “Let me introduce
you,” he said, “to Miss Gonzalo.”
With a stately little bow, she turned
to me, and we were soon engaged in
conversation. My friend had left
us, and, though I no longer dance, I
had asked her to be my partner.
She had not been in town long,
she said. She came from up country,
where she had first met my com
panion.
“No, I do not remember having
•een you at Gcremmeut House th*
other evening,” I said.
She did not reply, but played
. with tho tassel of her peplum.
Later on I said, “Have you visit
ed our small picture exhibition yet?”
“Yes,” she answered, her face
lighting up. “I am very fond of
pictures; my father was an artist ’*
I noted that she spoke in the past
tense. He was dead, then.
“You are herewith your mother!”
suggested.
“I am an orphan,” she said
quickly. ‘‘l am here with friends.”
Hero my friend came up to claim
her for a dance.
Later on in the evening I again
found myself alone in the veranda,
a clear Indian sky above me and my
thought* in an English home. My
young friend came up to me. They
are playing the last dance,” he said.
“Let us go home.”
“By all means,”! gladly rejoined.
“Have you enjoyed your evening!”
“Pretty well. What do yon think
of Mariquitta Gonzalo!”
“She is very handsome and charm
ing. Is bhe English!”
“Her father was a Spanish mer
chant and painter and left her a
very large fortune.”
“You have known her some time,
I hear!”
"Some months. I am glad you
admire her. I really like the girl,
and her fortune is worthy of old In
dian times.”
I was not prepared for this. “And
so you are going to make me the
witness of an engagement, I sup
pose?” I said, with a smile.
“Not likely!” he answered, with
a laugh that somehow struck me
unpleasantly.
“Oh, well, I only thought from
what you said”—
“No, no; not for me, ” he rejoined.
“They are all Very well to talk to;
perhaps you may say to flirt with—
I do not say no, but marry a woman
with—well—dark blood in her an
cestry—neverl”
I heard a slight noise, and, turn
ing, saw Mariquitta Gonzalo in the
doorway. The next minute she was
gone.
“She heard,” I faltered.
“Well, well, it cannot be helped,”
answered my companion and turned
to depart.
My friend left the next day. A
constraint seemed to have fallen
upon us.
• • • • • • ♦
It was a (tool, pleasant evening
when I stopped my carriage at the
corner house I knew so well. It was
not the usual calling hour, but the
one at which I thought my friends
were most likely to be found assem
bled.
It was some time before I discov
ered a man, who looked as if he
might belong to the place, as he sat
reading and, seemingly, by no means
inclined to understand me. When,
at last, he appeared to have grasped
the situation, he took my card and
vanished into the house. Another
man appeared, a very untidy man,
whose would be white clothes looked
somewhat ashamed of themselves.
He led me up a bare staircase to a
still barer landing place, and from
there into a sitting room which cer
tainly was not bare.
The walls were covered with
brightly colored prints. All the ta
bles, and there were many, had
brilliant cloths thrown over them
and were littered with bright orna
ments, photographs, and, incongru
ously enough, signs of a meal in the
form of plates that had not yet been
cleared away. Os birds there seemed
quite a collection; but, like the fur
, niture, they seemed chiefly to have
I been selected for their gay coloring,
and certainly not for their melo
dious voices.
Some moments elapsed before “the
mother” entered. I knew her well
from my observations of the family
as they sat on the roof. Over a
loose white wrapper she had thrown
' a bright crimson shawl, which made
one feel uncomfortably warm,
though doubtless it was meant as a
reception costume. I asked after
Miss Gonzalo, on whom I had come
to call. Thereupon this lady called
“Flora!” Flora, appearing, boro a
great resemblance to her mother,
and was also attired in white, but
her dress was tidier, and she proved
decidedly pretty.
“Flora, this gentleman wants to
see Mariquitta?”
“Yes, she is in,” was the reply,
and the damsel vanished.
“Miss Gonzalo is your niece?” I
ventured.
“Oh, dear, no! She is staying
with us because we knew her well
I up country before her mother died,
and we wanted her to see the town
and enjoy herself, so we have been
.taking her about.”
“I was happy enough to meet her
at the fancy dress ball the other
evening.”
“Ah, well! She did not enjoy
that; she was ill afterward. But
Flora liked it.”
Here we were interrupted by the
appearance of that young lady and
Mariquitta herself. The contrast
between the two girls was very
striking. Nobody could have sus
pected Mariquitta of ancestors dark
er than Spaniards. She greeted me
quietly; though iu- <■ firstrecogw
nized me, d deep had mounted
to her cheek.
“I wonder if that man is bringing
tea?” asked the mother, apparently,
of nobody in particular.
I began to talk to Mariquitta and
was glad when mother and daugh
ter vanished, one after the other,
evidently in quest of the untidy
san and tea.
Then Mariquitta rose and walked
«o the open door that led to the Hat
roof I knew so well.
“It is hot here,” she said.
We both stepped out and sat in
low chairs on the roof.
She was dressed in a neat white
dress and wore no ornaments, save
a large plainly set sapphire at her
throat. Her beauty was of the finest
Spanish type.
“I am glad to have an opportuni
ty of wishing you good by,” she
said.
“Are you leaving us so soon?”
“Yes, I do not think I like town
life, after all.”
“Do you not find it lonely up
country? You do not live by your
self?”
“An old friend of my mother lives
with me. She and I have no time
to be lonely, for I like to see to
everything myself. Besides, I am
not always there. I have been to
Europe twice since my parents died.
I went to Spain, but my father’s re
lations are all dead. ”
“Miss Gonzalo,” I said rather ab
ruptly, "your friends will return
directly, and I have a message to
deliver to you.”
“Yes?” with a questioning glance.
“From my friend. He has left me;
he was very sorry you—overheard;
he was grieved to have hurt you.”
I looked at her, but withdrew my
glance, amazed, for the quiet girl
beside me seemed of a sudden to be
inspired with all the fire and dignity
of her father's race.
“Grieved to have hurt me!” she
repeated slowly. “If I had believed
his ardent words, if ever I could
have believed him, he might have
hurt me. But I knew that he could
not mean such protestations for
more than a few hours. I knew, for
I had learned. Listen. I have had
a good education, and my father
was one of the most refined men I
have ever met. I knew long ago
that I was rich and thought I had
advantages even above other girls.
Ah, but I did not understand I My
father never brought me to this
town—l was educated in a convent
at home.
“Then my parents died, and grad
ually I began to understand. I un
derstood that what was for others
was not for me. I might have ad
vantages, be educated and rich, but
there would ever be one barrier that
no man’s hand could raise—the bar
rier of prejudice, of race. Aud Ido
not blame them. But it is hard some
times, and I thought there might be
exceptions. ’ ’
She faltered, despite the proud
curve of the lip, and I felt dimly
what my friend had won and—lost.
“There are exceptions, Miss Gon
zalo!” I exclaimed.
I gave her my hand. She pressed
it lightly, but gently shook her
head. Mother and daughter return
ed. The father and brother, too, ap
peared, both very dark, both very
talkative. We conversed, we drank
tea out of oddly assorted cups, and
then the untidy man escorted mo
through the gaudy sitting and bare
landing, down the dark staircase,
out into the street, with its gayly
robed homeward bound natives.
Before leaving I had turned to
Mariquitta. “Goodby,” I said.
“Goodby,” she had answcied.
I still pass the house at the corner
and look up at the roof, but I have
never been inside it again. The
mother sometimes nods to me from
the top, but they claim no other ac
quaintanceship.
I often remember Mariquitta and
her strange fate and think angrily
of my friend, whom I have not seen
since and wonderingly of her words,
“And Ido not blame them.” But
when I recollect the untidy man, tho
gaudy room, the white robed moth
er, Flora, the ill assorted cups, the
objectionable father and brother—
in fact, the whole establishment—l
leave off wondering, and I, too, un
derstand and do not blame. But,
understanding with my head, there
is a feeling which is still foolish
enough to whisper:
“Poor girl; poor Mariquitta!”—
Sketch. *
plainly io Estenega’s that he could not
have deserted her without rudeness, and
Estenega never was rude.
"Adan,” said Chonita abruptly, "1 am
tired of thee. Sit down under that tree
until I come back. I wish to walk alone
with Eustaqnia for awhile."
Adan signed and did as he was bidden,
consoling himself with a cigarito. Tak
ing a different path from the one the
others followed, we walked some dis
tance talklag of ordinary matters, both
avoiding tho subject of Diego Estenega
by common consent. And yet I was
convinced that she carried on a substra
tum of thought of which he was the sub
ject. even while she talked coherently to
me. On our way back the conversation
died for want of bone and muscle, and,